“…poor México, poor United States, so far from God, so near to each other.” Carlos Fuentes The Crystal Frontier

“Hola, amigo gringo!” The friendly fishmonger of Pescaderia La Tempesta looked at me kindly as I was admiring his catch of the day at the Mercado Lucas de Gálvez in downtown Mérida, the capitol city of the Mayan Yucatan.

“I’ll hire gringo immigrants when La Naranja finally drives you loco! Come here, put on an apron and visit my shop.” Little did my new friend know that I’d grown up in a white apron, working for my parents in our family restaurant. I was not a fish out of water.

There is something about walking quietly on the streets of México that captures and holds my heart. The distressed walls or new vivid colors take me away from the pervasive black and white world of North American function. The smell of corn masa tortillas and frying pork lard seem to permeate the country. I hear music everywhere.

“Once you have the dust of México on your clothes, it will never come off,” was a proverb my uncle gave to me as a young child. And so my walks in México help me contact his angelic presence.

But maybe it is the sleeping sense of history that made me fall in love with México.